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![]() Will write poetry for sex! ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Group: Member Posts: 1,110 Joined: Jan 2004 Member No: 600 ![]() |
Ah, yet another quickie.
Home Why is it, thought is home? The broken home, Unbearable and torturous. The memories you run from Hung up on picture frames Crooked with the smile You've always tried to understand. Skies blotched with blood You've only dreamt of bleeding. Your only sanctuary Overcoated with the nightmares You face only on your knees Praying to a false god. |
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#2
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![]() Will write poetry for sex! ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Group: Member Posts: 1,110 Joined: Jan 2004 Member No: 600 ![]() |
'The memories you run from, hung up on picture frames' - The memories you run from in your head, that you try to forget because they are painful, are constantly played back in your head like the pictures hung up in the hallway of your house...You always seem to pass by them.
'Crooked with the smile' - I wanted to give it some personification and make the memories (hung up on picture frames) mock me, call out to me so they can hurt me once again. (And you know how some pictures that are hung up wrong seem to lean on one side and are crooked) Ehhh...it's something like that. |
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